


Long Hard Road

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Series: Long Hard Road [1]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Het Relationship, Character of Color, Female Anti-Hero, Female Character of Color, Gen, Guns, Losersfest2010, Male Protagonist, Minor Character Death, Noncanonical Character Death, POV Male Character, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Roque and Clay, nothing comes easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Hard Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Losersfest](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/tag/losersfest) at [](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**the_losers_2010**](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/) and inspired by [this prompt](http://the-losers-2010.dreamwidth.org/4244.html?thread=130964&style=mine#cmt130964). Wow, I cannot thank [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) enough for holding my hand during this entire process, for being patient enough to handle my freakouts, and for being awesome enough to beta this in a short time period. Seriously, she's the absolute best, and I adore her.

**I. Barinas, Barinas, Venezuela**

Roque sharpens his blade like he's not sporting damage from third-degree burns under his shirt. Maybe he's not. Maybe he got away before the plane blew. Clay didn't think it was possible — he's pretty damn precise when it comes to killing people — but he also knows anything is possible. Take, for example, the fact that five and a half months after Roque betrayed him and the team in L.A., Clay is watching Roque run a whetstone across a combat knife in smooth, easy movements. The punch line: Clay's not sure whether to kill him or take him back.

The choice should be an easy one. Roque betrayed them and nothing signals dead quicker than a betrayal. But Clay's still here, has been for a while, long enough to confirm that Roque isn't a ghost and that this isn't a dream. They're seated across from each other in a room Roque's been renting for no more than a week, and it's Bolivia all over again. Clay even has the bottle neck of a Brava held loosely in the fingers of his left hand, the glass slick with condensation and wetting the faded carpet with each drip. In his right, though, he casually holds an M11, a round already chambered.

Roque didn't even flinch when Clay pulled the slide back and sat down. Five and a half months. It's apparently just long enough to wonder.

Roque shifts, rolling his shoulders, the corner of his mouth pulling into a barely-there grimace when he straightens his back. The chair creaks from the shift in weight, and then there's silence, nothing but the heat and tension between them.

"I wanna know why," Clay finally says, voicing the thought that's been running through his head ever since he traced a tip on Max here. The tip shouldn't have led him to Roque. The fact that it did should be enough — Roque is still Max's guy, maybe even replaced Wade as Max's go-to.

Roque sets the whetstone on the table between them and lays the knife across his lap. He flexes the fingers of his left hand and then bends his arm and rotates his shoulder. Clay rubs the pad of his thumb up and down the neck of the bottle until it's damn near numb while he waits for an answer. "You always want to be the good guy, Clay. Someone had to be the bad guy."

When Roque looks up, eyes meeting Clay's across the table, it's not a stranger's face — it's Roque at his six, mission ready. But that was five and a half months and a betrayal ago.

"Had to be you?" Clay asks.

Roque's mouth twists up, eyes going narrow around the corners — the look he usually gives Clay when he thinks Clay's said something stupid. The grin isn't planned; it's just there on Clay's face. It comes so naturally in answer to Roque's look that Clay can even admit — silently, of course — that maybe he did say something stupid. But they've got to get this out. If they're not soldiers anymore, then no more secrets. No more covert ops bullshit. They were a team. They should always have that.

The grin is gone by the time Clay leans forward, elbows on his knees, the gun and beer still loose and easy in his fingers. "You broke rank, Roque."

Clay's not finished, but Roque speaks anyway. "I know."

"Can't trust you anymore."

Roque leans further back in his seat and props his feet on the table, ankles crossed. Clay's expecting to hear another 'I know.' Instead: "You trusted her."

Clay shakes his head. "Didn't know her."

He's still got more to say, but Roque's voice slides easy into the gap. "Guess you didn't know me either."

Clay feels his expression begin to sour like he's taken a swig of something foul, but he forces a smile and straightens in his seat, tightening his fingers around the grip of his piece. "Guess not. The Roque I thought I knew wouldn't have betrayed the team." The look Clay levels at Roque silently adds the weighted 'or me.' The words that he doesn't say lay heavy like sand on Clay's tongue, like grit and gun oil.

Roque doesn't flinch from the accusation or Clay's hard stare. He just takes it steady like he's assessing mission ops or arming explosives. Clay can't help but wonder if his hands are still steady enough for it. "I did what I had to do."

Clay rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He wants to tip back the beer and chug it until it's gone, feel the buzz start to blur the edges, but he's not ready to take his eyes off Roque yet. Especially not when the man's got a blade as long as his forearm in his lap. No telling where his piece is, but Clay will bet his life that it's strapped under the chair or under the table. He might be doing just that anyway.

"Doesn't make it right," Clay says, voice too damn soft for this.

But so is Roque's. "Doesn't make it easy."

There's a moment of silence like they're mourning what's lost — between them, in their lives, what could have happened; it's hard to tell. Clay leans back in the chair, his shirt sticking to his body, and brings the Brava up to his lips. There's a solid moment where his and Roque's eyes meet over the lip of the bottle — clear and cold. Then Clay tips the beer back, throat exposed, and takes a large swallow.

Roque doesn't move, just watches, as silent and steady as Cougar on sniper duty. With two-thirds of the beer gone, the warm taste of it sloshing heavy in his stomach, Clay sets the bottle on top of the table, close to Roque's feet, and stares at the scuff marks on the sides of Roque's shoes. They've been a lot of places, and Clay wonders where Roque has been. It's a far walk — California to here.

"I can't trust you anymore, Roque." Clay slides his eyes up; it's a slow march from Roque's scuffed shoes to his eyes, but it's long enough for Clay to feel the grin stretch his mouth, pulled tight like he's pulling on the straps of his boots. "And I promised I'd kill you."

"Makes us even." Roque drops his feet, and Clay stares at the point between Roque's eyebrows like he's sighting a shot there. "I couldn't trust you either."

"Last I checked," Clay says, voice tight, his heart thudding heavy and hard in his chest, "I didn't betray you."

Roque shakes his head, but it's not a refusal. Too short, aborted, like he's conceding ground to hostiles. Or disagreeing with Clay's plans in a way that the team wouldn't catch, showing solidarity with whatever Clay came up with rather than split the team with dissent. It makes Clay want to crack his knuckles against Roque's jaw until his skin is split and bloody and he's more clear-headed from the rush.

"You want it easy, Clay? Think about it like this." Roque spreads his legs, leaning forward, drawing Clay's focus back to the here and now. "Max is still out there. I've seen him. I know a few things, and I can help you find him."

Clay feels the 'so have I' crowd his mouth. But five and a half months later, and he's got nothing to show for it. Max is a damn good ghost. So Clay sticks with what he knows, a pointed, "Yeah? And what's in it for you this time around? You sold us out." Clay feels his mouth pinch at the corners, the words still not easy to swallow in the gap. "I can't trust you not to do it again."

"I'm not asking you to trust me." But Roque's looking Clay in the eyes like that's exactly what he's asking. "My goals haven't changed. I want my name cleared. I want my life back."

_"Ain't no life but the one we've got right here, right now."_ Roque's words. But that was a different life, different history, different circumstance. They weren't on the run then. They hadn't gone for each other's throats in a genuine attempt to make each other dead.

"I used to be a part of that life," Clay says.

"You made that choice, Clay." Roque's eyes are steady, level, never leaving Clay's face, and his voice is smooth, burning liquid slow like a good shot of whiskey. Doesn't make it easy to swallow, though.

Clay's got another choice to make.

He taps his thumb against the safety on his gun and slowly pushes to his feet. The height advantage doesn't afford him anything with Roque. Roque knows the same tactics, knows how to do bland and uninterested until an opportunity presents itself to take out the target or complete a mission. Clay doesn't know what Roque's mission is — if it is to help Clay take down Max and get his life back or if it's to take down Clay and his team and get his life back. Then again, Clay's not sure what life Roque's been trying to get back.

"You're not off the hook, Roque. Not yet, not ever."

The team immediately explodes over Clay's earpiece, starting with Jensen's, "No way," followed by Pooch's, "Are you kidding me? Clay, man, you've gotta be kidding," interspersed with Jensen's, "Clay, dude, bad move, _bad move_," until it ends with Pooch's, "You guys know Clay. It's not true love until they try to kill him."

Clay stares down at Roque while his men have their moment, but there's nothing left to say. He cuts off the rest of the chatter with an abrupt, "We move out at 0500." He fishes the extra earpiece out of his pocket and tosses it, watching it skid across the table and fall to the floor. Roque doesn't move to pick it up. "Don't be late."

The space between Clay's shoulder blades prickles when he turns and walks out of the room. He doesn't like turning his back on a man he can't trust, especially when he doesn't have Cougar out in the clear with his rifle. But Roque knows those tricks, too.

Clay flicks the safety on and then tucks his gun at his back, pulling his shirt down over it so the tenants won't see it. He wishes he had a bottle of something stronger to drown out the bitter taste of his own goddamn confusion.

~*~

The hike to Pooch's location helps. But not by much.

Clay slides into the passenger seat, sweat dripping down his cheek, his back wet with it, and rolls down the window. Pooch doesn't say a word, just pulls onto the road and calls them in as safe and en route while Clay catches the wind and stares out at nothing.

They rendezvous with Jensen, Cougar and Aisha at the abandoned loft they decided to use for base ops. Clay's not stupid. Stupid men don't get command of a high-level covert team like the Losers, and Clay knows their strengths and weaknesses as well as he knows each scar sketched across his — and their — skin. He knows his men. Even when they're not his anymore.

So the moment he and Pooch walk through the door, Clay says, "I need to know where he's been, Jensen."

"Already on it, boss."

"You should just kill him," Aisha says, tone so bland that Clay almost misses what she said. When he catches it, he fixes her with a hard look, but she shrugs and casually leans against the wall like she's commenting on climate conditions. "You won't have to worry about him betraying you again if he's dead."

Clay catches Pooch shaking his head as he mutters a quiet, "Damn." Clay waits for the rest of it, and Pooch delivers, mouth turned down at the corners when he looks at Clay. "I think we have to admit to ourselves that she's right."

"Are we taking votes?" Jensen asks, raising his hand without turning around to look at any of them and continuing to type out whatever he's digging up. "'Cause I'm gonna have to go with the consensus on this one."

Clay walks over to Jensen and motions toward the laptop screen. "Tell me what you've got, Corporal."

Jensen straightens at the use of his rank and rakes a hand through his hair. "Well," he says, drawing out the word until he's pulled up what looks like medical records. He taps a few keys, and the image enlarges. "It looks like he's been a proud resident of the Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center."

Clay stares narrow-eyed at the screen, skimming over the John Doe, the description that matches Roque, the extent of the burns on his body, but Clay can't parse all the jargon and medical shorthand. "Who footed the bills?"

"Uh … ." Jensen's fingers move quickly on the keyboard, and in a matter of seconds, the image is replaced with an invoice. "Huh." Jensen leans back in his seat and tilts his head back to look at Clay. "Looks like he did."

"How?"

Jensen shrugs. "I guess he wasn't the only thing that didn't burn in the explosion." Jensen suddenly straightens and rubs his forehead with his palm, lips moving but otherwise silent. "Uh … ." He looks at Clay, eyes pinched around the corners. "Poor taste, huh?" With a shake of his head, Jensen focuses on the screen again. "He paid for everything in cash, and lemme tell ya, the stay wasn't cheap."

Clay squeezes the back of Jensen's chair and then nods and takes a step back. "How'd he get here?"

"Um … ." Jensen starts typing.

Clay has to look away from the screen, the lines of code moving too quickly for him to focus on it for long. Instead, he stares out the dust-tinted window and wonders if Roque is calling in their location to Max. With Max's resources, a chopper could be hustled in a matter of minutes. Clay knows he didn't have a tail, and Pooch would've spotted one on the road, but it's plausible enough to keep Clay on edge, even though the night sky is clear save for a few scattered stars. There aren't any shadows except for the ones in Clay's memories.

"Alias," Jensen says, breaking through Clay's thoughts. "Looks like Roque had some money stashed away. Not much, just enough to get him into the country and get set up. He, uh, sent us some stuff."

Clay stares down at Jensen. "What stuff?"

"Max-related goodies. Ordinance facilities, warehouse locations, drug stashes."

"Are we gonna take it as a good faith effort?" Pooch asks.

Clay shakes his head, eyes still on the screen. "We're gonna take it for what it is — compromised intel."

"So—" Jensen begins.

"Thanks, Jensen," Clay interrupts, giving Jensen's shoulder a short squeeze before he steps back to address the rest of the team. "Get some rest, Losers. We'll head out tomorrow, do some recon."

"Uh—" Jensen starts again, raising a finger.

This time, it's Aisha who interrupts. She pushes off the wall, eyes narrowed on Clay, lips pursed into a thin line. "You're being stupid." She rakes a look over Clay like he's a stranger, or something less than. In her estimation, though, he's not sure who measures up, if anyone. "And sentimental."

The look the team gives her is guarded and alert. It's been a while since that look has crossed their faces, but Roque's appearance changes—_has changed_ everything. Aisha slips out the door, the click of it final and resolute. Clay's pretty sure they'll see her tomorrow.

So he looks at his men. They'll follow him; he can see it in their faces, but they're wary. Clay nods in acknowledgement of that.

The possibility that Roque is playing them is damn high, but Clay already did that tango; he's on high alert now. And if Roque's intel _is_ good, they'll get Max. After all these months, they have a chance. Clay will have paid up on that promise he made to his team — Roque included — _and_ to those kids Max ruthlessly slaughtered in Bolivia.

At this point in the game, it's all or nothing. Stakes were always high.

~*~

The air is heavy and thick, the sun beating bright on them as they wait outside Roque's apartment. Cougar's inside the van, eyes sharp on anyone who passes by, and Jensen and Pooch are leaned against it, standing outside in the heat with Clay.

Jensen's hand suddenly pops up, and he waves it when everyone ignores him until Pooch mutters a low, "Damn, Jensen. Out with it already," and Clay acknowledges him with a nod.

"Great. Thanks. So since you didn't give us a chance yesterday, and I couldn't stop thinking about it last night, anyone else here think this is totally screwed up? Can we get a show of hands or some ayes up in here? Maybe a _what the hell are you doing, Clay_?" Jensen pointedly stares at Clay, arm still raised until he notices that Clay is staring at it 'cause it's noticeable enough to draw attention. Jensen drops his arm and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Not to sound insubordinate, but if I may speak freely, sir. Seriously, dude, I'm confused, because, uh, last time we saw Roque — as everyone else has clearly pointed out — he was _one of the bad guys_. I mean, there's always the redeemed bad guy story arc, which is cool, but shouldn't we at least confirm that he's, you know, _redeemed_ first?"

Pooch sighs. "Jensen's got a point."

Jensen nods. "Several, in fact. You want diagrams? Excel spreadsheets? A two-and-a-half minute video of why this is a bad idea? 'Cause I can proceed straight to Exhibit A—"

Cougar shifts just enough to catch Clay's attention and pushes up the brim of his hat, eyes meeting Clay's. It's damn near a rousing hear, hear.

"—I'm just asking," Jensen continues. "Are we making it a point to trust people who want to kill you? Because, man, I don't know. This is getting pretty wild. Between Aisha and Roque—"

"Don't worry about 'em," Clay says, tempted to lean against the van himself as he flicks a look toward the entrance. "Max is our priority."

"Keeping you alive should be a priority, too," Cougar says, and Clay knows it's bad when Cougar decides to be this vocal.

So he claps Jensen's shoulder and offers his team a grin to set them more at ease. He's about to give them the simple reassurance that he's stayed alive this long, but he spots Roque and Aisha facing off near the entrance.

"Load up," he orders and heads over to diffuse the situation before it escalates and draws the local authorities and additional onlookers.

"My bet's on Aisha," Clay hears Jensen mutter before he walks over.

He quickens his steps when he sees Aisha smile, the same smile that tends to precede her fist, a high-level explosive, or an RPG. She turns, though, looks at him and greets him with an innocuous, "Hey, Clay." Then she walks off.

Before Clay can say anything, Roque hefts his duffel and brushes past him, too, heading toward the van. It's a better start than Clay thought it would be, so he considers it mission successful and follows after Roque to keep everyone separated.

 

**II. West Palm Beach, Florida, U.S.**

Jensen sets up in one of the back rooms and the rest of the team bunks down in whatever office they decide to hole up in. Clay's seated on the bed of the truck that Pooch hotwired to get 'em here and pretends to nurse a glass of whiskey. He hasn't taken more than a sip. The situation's too tense to have his senses dulled for a cheap, brief respite. Or to get much sleep.

His thoughts keep slipping back to Roque. And Max.

Clay tilts the glass and watches the whiskey glide smooth until it's splashing to the ground, creating a dark circle on the asphalt. That's when Jensen comes barreling through the back door. Before Jensen has said a word, Clay's already hopping down, the glass discarded in favor of his Kimber Custom and two extra mags.

"Clay, you've gotta come see this," Jensen says, making an about face.

Before he can head inside the building, Clay sprints forward and grabs the collar of Jensen's shirt to haul him back because Clay's not going into this blind and Jensen should damn well know better. "What's the sit-rep, Jensen?"

"Aisha and Roque." Jensen pulls down his T-shirt when Clay lets him go. "They're in the room Roque took." Clay nods and follows Jensen inside. He doesn't holster his piece. "I plugged into the security feeds to keep us off grid _and_—" Jensen drops into the chair, swivels it around and taps a key on the laptop. The visuals on Roque's space as well as the cameras on the perimeter appear on screen. "Aisha and Roque. Together, as you can see. They're talking."

Talking. Not killing each other?

Clay leans closer to take stock, trying to work out what Aisha could possibly be doing with Roque that doesn't involve cutting, shooting or fighting. "We've got audio?"

Jensen snorts. "Of course. I never half-ass a job."

Clay narrows his eyes at the screen, and Jensen was right. Aisha and Roque are talking. Or were. The audio feed catches the tail end of a word that could be Clay's name, could be a lead on Max's next move, could be anything. Then Aisha and Roque fall silent, not that it looks like Roque was engaged in whatever conversation he and Aisha were supposed to be having. Roque's attention is focused on the map that he's got tacked to the wall. He traces a region in Asia with the tip of his finger — Clay can't make out where exactly, somewhere northwest. He briefly wonders if it's significant — and how — when he sees Aisha lean forward and finger one of the knives Roque has on the table. Roque shifts. Clay can't see it, but he knows Roque just went for his sidearm.

"Are you still planning on killing him?" she asks, voice cool, irreverent.

Clay stills, automatically shifting his attention to Roque, who hasn't moved away from the map.

"Are you?" Roque asks.

"Kill it," Clay says. Jensen gives Clay a look, but Clay repeats the order.

"I—" Aisha starts.

Clay doesn't hear the rest. He doesn't need to.

~*~

The hinges on the door creak; it's why Clay chose this office. The sound keeps him alert, focused; it reminds him that he can't trust his surroundings. So when Clay hears the door, he looks up to see Roque strolling through.

Clay's about to stand, ask what's going on, but Roque tosses something at him.

"You lost this."

The CCD surveillance camera skids across the table, skips over the map of Miami that Clay's got spread out on the desk, and lands in Clay's lap.

When he looks up, Roque is already out the door.

~*~

They're an hour out from hitting the warehouse when Aisha raps her knuckles on the door frame, walks in, and shuts the door behind her.

"I heard"—She drags Clay's chair away from the desk and slides into his lap, draping her arms around his neck—"that you bugged Roque's room."

Clay stares up at her, waiting for the rest of what she's got to say as her nails lazily sweep up and down the back of his neck, making his skin prickle. No point in explaining the distinction to her — that he didn't bug the room, just utilized what was there. He's also not exactly warmed by her answering smile or the way she slides a hand down to toy with his collar.

"That's what I thought." Aisha's voice drops to a whisper that blows across Clay's neck when she leans closer. "If you ever bug me."

Clay waits for the usual threats, but when Aisha doesn't supply anything more than a kiss smudged up the line of his jaw, he tilts his head and supplies, "You'll shove it up my ass?"

There's a huff of a breath on Clay's neck that could be a laugh. "I'll gut you." Aisha's fingers slide down his chest. "And take one of your ears as a souvenir."

It's hard not to moan when she bites his earlobe, drawing it sharply between her teeth and sending a shock of pleasure down his spine.

"Duly noted," Clay says, settling his hands low on Aisha's hips when she grinds down.

Her kiss is just as vicious but no less thrilling.

 

**III. Miami, Florida, U.S.**

The op was supposed to break down smoothly — Clay and Jensen plant the charges while Cougar provided backup from a safe vantage point; Pooch was exfil; Aisha was pure muscle. Roque was a nonfactor. And if the op didn't run smoothly, then Clay had his answer.

Clay gets his answer when he finds himself flying several feet from his position after he exits the building. He collides into something, and the air rushes out of his lungs, pain shooting sparks down to his fingers when he rolls over a sharp corner. He hits the ground, lucky enough to fall on his side instead of his face, and then rolls on momentum, debris showering over him, chunks of wood and fire striking his back. Clay smells it — the smoke, the dust from the asphalt below him — but he can't quite take a breath. All he can do is watch the flames flare up and out as another explosion takes out the warehouse and sets off a chain reaction until the entire building is burning and crumbling in on itself.

It's the security team that gets Clay moving. He coughs, his throat burning, and drags himself to his feet, his ears still ringing from the blast. A trickle of sweat slides down his cheek, but he knows he's not fooling anyone. It's probably blood, but he'll think about it later. If it's not a gusher, there's no time to look. And there's no time to stop when mission status just hit FUBAR.

Clay dodges behind the crates that he hit and uses the back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow, feeling for his earpiece with the fingers of his other hand. It's not in his ear, but he follows the spiral cord down until he can lift it off his shirt and get it back in. He calls for Pooch, Cougar, and then Jensen. When he gets no one, he goes for last resort, Aisha. There's nothing but dead air and the ringing in Clay's ears. Past that, there's a security team, ex-military, hustling for him and his team. Time to move.

Clay shoves down the nausea and dizziness, shakes off the numb feeling in his fingers and reaches for his rifle. He checks the mag — good — and then peers out from his cover. Seven pissed off scouts. Clay takes down three while they're chit-chatting, crawls to the other side of the crates and takes out two more. He feels out of breath, but he can't stay here and let them pin him down. Clay runs his tongue across his teeth, turns his head to spit out the grit thick on the back of his tongue, and then breaks position. He has to make the rendezvous point. If Jensen survived — and Roque better pray to whatever god he believes in that Jensen did — then he'll be there with Pooch and the rest of the team. Either way, Roque's a dead man, and this time, Clay's going to put a bullet between his eyes, kill undoubtedly fucking confirmed.

Clay drops and rolls — pain shooting through his ribs and squeezing down on his lungs — when he sees a larger group rounding the corner that he was about to take. His heart's beating too fast and pounding so hard that he can feel it in his teeth and the tips of his fingers. His mouth feels grainy from the smoke and debris, but it helps keep him focused. So does each inhale and exhale, even though it sends a pang through his chest and shoulders that makes breathing an endurance trial.

It keeps Clay's thoughts from going back to Jensen. He crouches, aims, and empties his clip into the security team before they can get their weapons raised. He can't think about what he's supposed to tell Liz. Damn it. Or Beth. The girl's too young to lose her uncle a second time. Clay scrambles behind a jeep, peering under it to count the feet headed his way as he searches out another clip. His pocket's torn — damn it — so he drops the rifle and goes for the Kimber Customs strapped to his hips. He checks the mags on both pieces and breathes, sweat dripping into his eyes. He wipes it away with his sleeve and doesn't look, but he catches a brief flash of red, which confirms a minor injury. He'll deal with it later, once he's got his team safe.

With another breath, as deep as he can take despite the way his ribs ache, Clay surges up and fires several more shots. He sees a few men drop, but it's what Clay sees behind them that draws his attention. Roque. Not just Roque, though, Roque with Jensen's arm slung around his shoulder while Jensen aims a Heckler and Koch MP5-N in his free hand. The sight's a little jarring, gets all muddled up with the adrenaline that's flooded Clay's system. His vision keeps blurring like he's underwater.

Clay drops when he sees Roque nod, and he watches, from his vantage point under the jeep, all the bodies hit the ground. The muscles around Clay's ribs are hopping like goddamn rabbits, but he grits his teeth, grips the side mirror and hauls himself up.

"Oh, man, it is so good to see you," Jensen says.

Jensen's glasses are gone, and blood is dripping down from his right temple, his face smudged with smoke and his hair sticking up all over the place. But he's alive. Clay skirts a look lower when Jensen hops closer.

"I think one of the charges blew early—"

Clay shakes his head and grips Jensen's shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "No time. Let's move. There's probably more men headed this way. If not, there'll be cops and fire trucks flooding the scene. Can you walk?"

Jensen laughs, the sound rough, bordering on wild, but he's allowed after his close call. "Pooch is going to have a freaking _field day_ with this one." Then he shakes his head, leaning hard on the hood of the jeep. "Nope. It hurts like a you-know-what. I might've twisted something."

Clay nods and gets an arm around Jensen's waist, wrapping Jensen's arm around his shoulder. It's a slow run, hobble, walk to the rendezvous, the ringing in Clay's ears only getting louder with each shot Roque takes to cover them. Jensen's weight adds more pressure on Clay's already-bruised muscles until each breath becomes a little harder to take in. But somehow, they make it.

Almost.

Clay hears the whizz of the bullet — although that can't be right because there's no way he can be sure. But in that moment, it certainly feels like a bullet whizzed past his ear.

"Get down!" Pooch shouts.

Something — not something, some_one_ — _Roque_ — hits Clay's back, and then he feels Roque's fingers hooking into his BDUs and yanking him down. Clay's knees strike concrete, and the pain that vibrates up is like an electric shock through all of his muscles. There's a moment where everything goes silent. When the sound rushes back in, Roque is draped over the lower half of Clay's body and Jensen is sprawled next to Clay. Clay tries to twist anyway, planting a hand on the ground and getting himself untangled from Roque and Jensen so he can get a handle on the situation.

What he sees is Aisha appearing with a sniper rifle — no way it's Cougar's but Clay can't figure out where she got it — taking aim and firing. She drops the rifle into the van and runs toward them, grabbing Jensen by the back of his shirt and bodily lifting him.

"Holy _crap_," Jensen chokes out, eyes wide, "remind me never to piss you off."

"Get up, Clay," she says, fingers wrapping around his arm and pulling. "We're a little short on time here."

Pooch appears to support Clay's other arm as Clay drags himself up. "Roque."

"Behind you," Pooch says.

There's something in Pooch's voice that makes Clay want to turn his head and verify. Roque went down. The possibility is high that ... . The thought remains unfinished. When Clay manages to look behind him, Roque is there, a hand pressed to his shoulder, mouth twisted into a grimace, and then they're all getting dragged to the van.

Jensen goes in the front with Pooch, and Clay and Roque ride in back with Aisha and Cougar. Clay's ready to surrender to the shadows creeping into the corners of his vision, but he sees Aisha's arm come up. He follows the length of it to her hand, and at the end of that road is a gun, the barrel aimed at Roque's forehead.

"You betrayed us," she says.

"You believe that," Roque says, fingers wet with blood, his shirt dark from the spreading stain, "you better shoot me."

Clay almost asks if Roque's got a death wish because if he does, then Clay's going to be the one to deliver on it. Except Clay already knows the answer to that question. It's Roque's answer, several years back when they were deployed to Sudan.

_"This is what we do. We pick up our rifles, go into hostile territory, and kill for a living. We stick it out, and we make fucking do. In this job, we've all got a death wish."_

But Clay's got other wishes, too. "Stand down," he says, eyes narrowed on Aisha before she can make the choice that Clay probably should've made himself.

Aisha's eyes cut through Clay, her gun still aimed at Roque, her finger on the trigger. One flex, and it's over, and everyone in the van knows how trigger happy Aisha is. A lot runs through Clay's head at once — mostly how much his chest hurts, how each throb of his heart sends a trickle of blood down his cheek. Could be sweat this time, but he can afford to acknowledge that he's got several injuries. Then there's Jensen, alive but wounded, and there's a possibility that Roque has a bullet lodged in his shoulder. But the mission was successful. They took out their target. Regardless, there's no excuse for what Clay does next — it's a stupid, grunt move. But he's tired and he doesn't have time for Aisha's and Roque's pissing contest. It's what he should've done when Roque held the piece to Aisha's forehead.

Clay wraps his fingers around Aisha's wrist and pushes the gun down, away from Roque's skull and any member of his team. He feels something at his side and catches a glimmer of intent in Aisha's eyes. Trust her to have another weapon ready. Hell, she _is_ a weapon. And they still have that score to settle. Clay looks at her and wonders if it's time for the payout or if she's going to wait a little longer, wait until they've finally reached that hopeful end of taking down Max. Clay never forgets: letting him live is a choice Aisha makes every single day. So today might just be _the_ day.

"He's mine," Clay tells her. Not the greatest final words, but it's what Clay has.

The serrated edge of her blade taps against his side.

"Hey, we okay back there?" Pooch asks from the front, and Clay catches his eyes in the rearview mirror. "'Cause you better believe, I _will_ pull this truck over."

"Uh, can it wait until after we get to safe ground?" Jensen asks. "I don't think the kids were being _that_ bad."

Count on Pooch and Jensen to diffuse a situation. Aisha sits back, but it's Clay who looks away first. He can hear sirens in the background, could probably still see the smoke from the explosion if he risked a glance back and looked. Instead, he stares at the blood coating Roque's hand and listens. Clay's not sure what he's listening for, but there's nothing but the ringing in his own ears.

Clay flexes his fingers around the grip of his own piece, one trigger pull away from ending all this himself. But he gives Roque a chance to make right. "Did you do it?" Then he searches Roque's face, waiting for any of the tells that'll give him away right now.

"It'd be a stupid move for me, wouldn't it?" Roque counters. He drops his head, winces, and blows out a breath. When he opens his eyes, he's looking at Clay, and it's a look that Clay's so familiar with, he's got the answer he needs before Roque gives a tight, "No."

Then again, Roque knows those tells, too.

Clay leans back, body going loose when he flicks the safety on his piece and sets it in his lap, his thigh brushing flush against Roque's. He shifts, putting space between them, and covers Roque's hand to add more pressure to the wound. "You're not off the hook," he mutters.

"Of course not."

~*~

If this keeps up, Clay's going to wear down his back molars. His teeth stay clenched as Cougar's fingers slide over his ribs, Cougar's fingertips pressing down on what feel like some of the worst bruises and poking each goddamn rib.

Clay slumps forward, exhaling a breath that can double up as a relieved sigh when Cougar says, "There's nothing broken."

"Good." Clay straightens, lifting his arms again. "Bind it up."

Cougar's quick and efficient, and Clay's breathing is even more hampered but this should get him until they can get out of here. "How's Jensen?"

The corner of Cougar's mouth lifts, and he gives Clay a look. Clay nods. So Jensen's good. Nothing serious.

"And Roque?" Clay asks after a beat of silence.

Cougar's smile falls, his expression smoothing out into something blank and inaccessible. But it's in his eyes. Clay nods again and slides off the desk. He grips Cougar's shoulder and squeezes, holding Cougar's eyes.

"Thanks, Cougar."

Clay slips out of the room and heads for Roque. The door is shut. Clay knocks once but doesn't wait, just opens the door and steps inside. He's caught short by the sight of Roque taking off his shirt, the movement careful, almost stilted, stiff like he's held position too long. Clay sees only because of what's missing. Roque's tats have been replaced with burn scars, the skin bumpy and twisted, roping down into more smooth ridges that vanish past his waistline. The left side of Roque's shoulder and back is covered in blood.

"You comin' to help or are you just gonna watch?" Roque asks without turning around.

Clay lets go of the doorknob and shuts the door behind him. He walks over to Roque, eyes sweeping down and up and over the scars on Roque's back before his attention is drawn to the bottle of Jack on the desk. The gauze, needle, thread and tape are laid out next to it. Clay takes another look at Roque's back, searching for the spray of skin that's left behind when a bullet exits. He doesn't see one, which means he's going to have to dig the bullet out.

It's easy to fall into the routine when Roque drags himself onto the desk, shirt held to his shoulder, the points of his knuckles sharp against the fabric. Not as easy not to look. The scarring looked extensive, and it curves around, covering part of Roque's ribs and edging along his stomach. Clay doesn't know how Roque doesn't have muscle or nerve damage. Doesn't even know if Roque's vision is twenty-twenty anymore after Clay tried to take out his eye. There's a lot of questions.

Clay unscrews the cap to the Jack and offers Roque a sip, but Roque declines with a shake of his head.

"You ready?" Clay asks, about to reach for Roque, but he lets his hand drop to his side.

"Don't ask dumb questions. Just do it."

Roque drops the shirt, and Clay pours. Roque hisses in a breath, his hand slamming down on the desk, jaw clenched and lips thinned into a tight line, the corded muscles on his neck standing out when he stiffens. Clay stops, running his tongue across his teeth at the scent of the liquor mixing with the blood — he could use a drink — and watches Roque blow out a breath. All the tension rushes out of Roque at once, and when he sags forward, Clay's there, pushing Roque's uninjured shoulder to keep him upright and wrapping his other hand around Roque's arm, the skin slick from the liquor and bumpy with more scars. Clay resists the urge to let his fingers drift the length of them, follow the winding path they make to Roque's shoulder and back.

Instead, Clay counts: one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, and Roque straightens. Clay gives Roque another beat before he lets go. He pours some of the Jack into the cap and then hands Roque the bottle. Roque sets it aside, a slight tremor in his grip that Clay doesn't make mention of as he drops the needle into the cap. He takes the towel that's laid across Roque's lap and uses it to wipe away the blood and alcohol from Roque's chest and shoulder. With that done, Clay flicks a look up to Roque's face, meets his eyes, and waits for Roque's go ahead. Roque gives it with a short, sharp nod and hands Clay one of his slim blades.

Roque strikes the desk with the heel of his palm when Clay goes for the bullet, the sweat on his brow beading fast and dripping down his cheeks. He doesn't know how this thing got lodged, but he digs until the warped metal piece drops into his palm. Clay uses the edge of the towel to wipe his hands before he picks up the needle and threads it. It gives Roque enough time to catch his breath and steel himself again.

Roque's head drops back anyway, nostrils flaring when Clay pierces his skin, a rough, "Goddamn it," gritted out between his teeth.

"Yeah," Clay agrees but doesn't stop 'til it's done.

When he's finished, he almost runs his knuckles over the stitches laced through Roque's skin, almost traces the pattern of scars roped around Roque's body, almost does a lot of things, fingers twitching to follow through with the muscle memory.

Clay looks up, but Roque's eyes are closed.

Clay makes sure he's gone before Roque opens them.

~*~

Everyone's seated in the front, ready for the next set of orders, but their faces are long and drawn. They're all exhausted. Everyone except Aisha, who looks more determined and more pissed off. They get closer and closer, but close isn't cutting it.

"So what's next, boss?" Jensen asks, rubbing his eyes and then squinting at something to Clay's left.

"Scatter and regroup. The downtime will help us recover and gather more intel on Max's newest operations."

Jensen nods, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Cougar flicks a look at Roque, who's leaned against the wall near the boarded-up window, but it's Pooch who voices the question.

"What about Roque?"

Roque straightens, eyes landing heavy on the back of Pooch's head. "What about me?"

Clay breathes in, slow and silent, and then shifts, leaning forward and drawing everyone's attention back to him. "He's comin' with me."

 

**IV. Columbia, South Carolina, U.S.**

Clay wakes with sweat on his brow, the flat sheet tangled around his legs, and his ears ringing. Roque stands in the doorway, his body casting a long shadow into the room that stretches over Clay's bed, and Clay almost reaches for a piece that Roque may or may not know is there.

"What is it?" Clay asks, sitting up and darting a look at the dresser, but there isn't a clock there.

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"Morning run."

Clay scrubs a hand down his face and then tosses off the sheet, swinging his legs off the bed. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and his eyes are gritty from sleep — or the lack of. He's sore and stiff, his whole body throbbing and overheated. "I'll be there in a minute."

"To do what?"

Clay looks up at Roque, who doesn't look like he's moved. "Morning run."

Something curls low in Clay's gut at the look Roque rakes over him, a head-to-toe sweep of his eyes that's slow and considering, but Clay ignores it and stands.

"You haven't recovered enough for a morning run," Roque says.

"You don't know what I'm up for."

Clay walks to the door, but Roque doesn't move when he gets there. They stand there like that, staring at each other, arms loose and easy at their sides. Clay's heart pumps harder as he curls and uncurls his fingers, priming up for a punch, steeling himself to receive one. But Roque steps back and to the side.

"I'll give you five," he says.

Clay nods and walks to the bathroom. He gets a look at himself in the mirror and gives a good thought to a shave. In the end, he doesn't bother and is ready in six minutes, a quick check in with Jensen taking a good minute and a half.

When Clay emerges from his room, he catches Roque in mid stretch and his attention lingers on the thick scars covering the backs of Roque's thighs.

"How many miles?" he asks, detouring around the couch to the kitchen to grab a water bottle from the fridge.

The only answer Clay gets is the sound of the deadbolt sliding back. So Clay grabs his keys, locks up, and follows. The moment Roque reaches the street, he starts running. Clay spares a few minutes to stretch. His body hates it and his breath hitches with each pull of his muscles, but he runs after Roque anyway. Clay outpaces him in a block. He doesn't keep the lead long, though, not with the way his lungs burn from the exertion and each foot fall is as jarring as getting sucker punched. Clay pushes himself anyway, teeth clenched, throat dry, until he and Roque make a full circuit back to the apartment.

Clay drops onto the lowest step, but Roque hunches over where he is, one hand on the stairway railing. They're both breathing heavy, chests heaving and sweat dripping down their faces, their shirts soaked with it. Clay uses his to wipe the sweat off his face and then leans back with a short breath. He's grateful for the breeze that kicks up. The east coast is more forgiving than South American summers.

It's probably that thought that propels Clay to ask, "Why Venezuela?"

Roque's fingers tighten on the railing and then uncurl, sliding down and falling at his side as he pulls himself up. His nostrils flare, the corners of his mouth pinching into a frown, and he sets his hands low on his hips. Clay wonders how far the scars go, if all of them are as thick as the scars that cover his back.

"Knew you'd find me there," Roque says.

Clay's eyes dart back to Roque's face — he knows he's been caught looking — but he thinks he should know if Roque's mobility is impaired. Then again, neither one of them have a right to anything when it comes to each other. "Could have found you in L.A."

Roque wipes the sweat out of his eyes, and Clay wonders what he's trying to hide in them. He doesn't get a chance to see because Roque is climbing over him and heading up the stairs.

"But you didn't," he says like a parting shot.

Clay waits until his heart slows and his breathing evens out before he follows.

~*~

The light in the room is dim, and Clay's half-asleep on the couch, stretched across it like he's alone, but he remembers Roque is here, too. Now. Again. Something like that. When Clay blinks, Roque is standing over him, eyes dark. Half of Roque's face is shadowed, the other half, where the scar cuts through Roque's eye, is illuminated by the light from the lamp.

So this is it. Roque's beating Aisha to the punch.

Clay's got his piece trained on Roque's chest and grabs for Roque's wrist with his other hand. He feels the outline of the bone at Roque's wrist and the small bump of another scar on the inside of Roque's wrist, but that doesn't stop him from squeezing until he can feel the bones grind.

"Easy," Roque says.

Clay doesn't move; neither does Roque. They stare at each other, the shadows edging deeper into the room as it gets darker outside. Clay wants to ask 'when?', but it's Roque who gets his words out first.

"I'm just trying to give you a pillow, Clay."

Clay blinks, darting a look down, and there, in Roque's other hand is a pillow from his room. Clay loosens his hold, the tips of his fingers drifting down Roque's wrist and palm until they hit the carpet. He flicks the safety on his gun but doesn't let it go as he grips the back of the couch and pulls himself up.

"What time is it?" Clay asks.

"Got somewhere you gotta be?"

Clay runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips. They feel dry and cracked. "Maybe."

"It's almost eight. Jensen called."

Clay snaps to alertness and sweeps the room for his phone. "When?"

"About an hour and a half ago." Roque holds out Clay's cell. "Guess you should call him before they send backup."

Clay silently takes the phone and forces himself up, the muscles in his back protesting the work. He tries to stretch them out to get 'em to loosen, but his body's determined to be stiff until these bruises heal.

"Thanks," he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for his room.

"You're welcome."

The space between Clay's shoulder blades still prickles, but a closed door fixes that easy.

~*~

A week out, and Clay's done recovering and ready to work. He sits on the couch and cleans every weapon he's got — an M11, two Kimber Customs, and one of Roque's Desert Eagles just 'cause it's different. Roque walks through the door, takes stock, but doesn't say anything. When he comes back, he sets a water bottle on the floor between them and sits next to Clay on the couch, using his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. His runs aren't limited to mornings anymore.

They sit there, falling into the lull of disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling, damn near shoulder to shoulder until the screen on Clay's phone lights up. He answers before the ring has played through.

"What have you got?"

"Morning to you, too, boss," Jensen says. "So how's the sunshine and downtime?"

Clay sets everything down and wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder, using both hands to push himself off the couch. He catches Roque's eyes, but Roque returns to what he's doing when Clay jabs a thumb to his room.

"Out with it, Jensen," Clay says when he shuts the door.

"Well, someone paid me a visit this week." Clay waits for Jensen to elaborate, hears a sigh, and then, "Our resident badass Aisha. She brought gifts."

"She caught you in your underwear, didn't she?"

"Uh … No comment. _Anyway_, she brought some heavy-encrypted stuff. I'm talkin' beyond DOD-level and well into a good challenge for me. I have to tell ya, Max knows how to get his hands on some of the good stuff."

"Got it cracked?" Clay walks away from the door and sits on the bed, switching the phone to his other ear so he can listen for someone at the door.

"Not yet, but I'm getting there. So where should I schedule the meet up?"

"We'll go to you."

"Aye, aye, boss. See you tomorrow or sooner?"

"As soon as you get it cracked."

"This baby will be givin' up the goods in no time. I say we make it a lunch date."

"Make the phone calls. We'll be there."

 

**IV. Akron, Ohio, U.S.**

Pooch drops onto the couch with a shake of his head. "At least this time he's dressed."

"I'm always dressed," Jensen says, tossing Pooch a bobble-head Chihuahua like he's throwing a basketball. "Just not to your level of satisfaction."

"What have you got?" Clay asks, walking around to view Jensen's screen.

"Max's operations," Aisha answers. "Where he's getting his money, where it's going, and where he's going to be to pick up his latest toy."

"Where'd you find this?" Roque asks, leaning against the wall.

"How I get my information doesn't concern you."

"So anyone interested in the goods?" Jensen interrupts with a grin. Everyone turns to him. "Okay then." He swivels his chair around. "It looks like Max is investing in a lot of research. Mostly surveillance-based stuff. Hey, did you guys know that England has a camera-human ratio of 8:1? No? Well, in two easily-digestible words, that's _a lot_. So Max has been funding a lot of tracking, electronic countermeasures, signals intelligence, missile guidance, some really expensive tech for improving Air Force navigation. Pretty much anything that can carry a load and hit the target — he's interested in it."

"So what's his latest investment?" Clay asks, digesting the information.

"Oddly enough, air defense. Mostly SAMs and GTAMs."

Clay frowns, examining the SAM specs that Jensen has on screen. "Do you have target information?"

"Not on the drive that Aisha gave me." Jensen turns, grabbing the desk behind him to stop his spin. "But whatever this fancy new toy is, Max is probably going to pick it up in the next week or so. According to what we've got, they're scheduled to do a test in two days."

Clay nods now that he's got something solid. "Where?"

"Uh." Jensen blinks and looks up at Clay. "Somewhere in the North Pacific."

Clay looks at Aisha, and she straightens. "I can get us there."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Pooch stands. "Hold up a minute. What're we doing when we get out there? Steal the thing? What's the plan here, Clay?"

Clay leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "We can't let Max get a hold of it. He's trying to start something, something big, and we're the only ones who can stop him."

"Ah, damn." Pooch drops back onto the couch, holding his head in his hands. "It's a lot harder to sneak up on a naval ship."

"It won't be," Aisha says. "Not for us. I have connections."

"Uh, they wouldn't be drug connections, would they?" Jensen asks, raising a finger. "'Cause that could put us in deeper trouble than we wan—" Aisha quells Jensen with a look, and he nods, slapping his knees. "Okay, shutting up now."

Clay pushes off the wall and takes a look at each member of his team, his eyes landing on Roque last. "You all have a choice, same as always," he says.

Pooch drops his hands and lifts his head. "I'm in, Clay. Always. I just want to get a chance to go home first."

Clay nods.

"Yeah, I'm in, too." Jensen laughs. "Can't leave my buddies hangin', after all."

Clay finds Cougar in the corner and gets a nod and a grin.

It's Aisha who looks at Roque, her eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. "And you?" she asks.

"Nowhere else for me to be," Roque says with a shrug. "Maybe after this, it'll be done and we can stop chasing a goddamn ghost."

"Okay, Losers. We'll rendezvous tomorrow." Clay looks at Aisha. "Is that enough time for you to hustle up your connections."

Aisha smiles. "Plenty."

 

**V. International Waters, North Pacific Ocean, U.S. _Arleigh Burke_-Class Destroyer**

Clay motions to Aisha, and she nods. She climbs up the side of the ship, swings around, and what follows shortly after is a body. Two more fly over the railing by the time Clay reaches the deck. Lucky for him and his team, the sound of the engine masks the sound of a body going overboard. All Clay can hope for now is that the sailors get dragged down by the undertow or that a scout won't catch sight of them if they happen to resurface.

He glares down at Aisha when he reaches topside, but she answers with a dismissive shrug and turns, creeping along the wall toward their objective.

"So you'll want to make a right at some point," Jensen says through the earpiece. "You know the area's going to be heavily guarded, right? I'll take your silence as a yes. Man, they've got some major firepower on that deck. Did you know they wanted to put some ERGMs on this baby? Hey, I guess we're lucky that the upgrades didn't include a larger crew, huh?" Clay grits his teeth. "_And_ turn right ... _now_."

Clay rounds the corner only to run into an armed guard. Damn it. He clamps a hand over the man's mouth and jabs his fist into the guy's gut before he can aim his weapon. A strike to the head with the butt of Clay's gun puts him out. Clay steps over him while Jensen keeps talking and shoots a glance back to confirm Aisha's still at his twelve. She's not. Clay dismisses it for now — he has to; their time is limited — and continues ahead. He encounters three more sailors and another armed guard before he reaches the control room. He doesn't have to worry about the security there because they're all dead, the door wide open and Aisha at the console.

"What the hell are you doing?" Clay demands.

"Getting things done," she says without turning around. "You should take a look at this."

She steps aside, and Clay looks down at the screen. It's locations, most likely targets — Clay grips the edges of the console, leaning forward, eyes narrowed as he skims the list.

"Abort mission," he orders.

"What's going on? You guys need—"

"Put Pooch in position," Clay continues. "Have Cougar cover Roque."

"Clay?" Jensen asks.

"Just do it."

"You should have killed him," Aisha says at his back and then they run straight into the contingent waiting for them.

~*~

Clay comes to slowly, his head pounding and blood thick on the back of his tongue. Must have bitten something when they hit him. He tries to clutch the side of his head to ease the throb, maybe shake it off, but ends up cutting his wrists with the cuffs when he tries to jerk his arm. Clay opens his eyes, blinks past the blur, and rolls onto his back. He takes a breath and tries to identify his location. It doesn't look like he's in a holding cell. So all he has to do is get these cuffs off or worst-case scenario, get them to his front, and reach the deck.

"I know more than two hundred ways to kill a man," Aisha says, her tone matter-of-fact. "I don't need a weapon to make you dead, Roque."

Clay rolls to his side and gets to his knees, his vision not quite clear but clear enough to see that no one on his team evaded capture. Then there's Roque, seated in the middle of the floor, cuffed just like the rest of them. Clay pulls on his cuffs like he can break them through sheer force of will as he stares at Roque.

"It was you."

The tackle isn't planned, and with Clay's hands bound behind him, his balance is off. But Roque goes down hard. Clay plants a knee on his stomach to keep him there, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

"What deal did you make with Max this time? What did he offer you?"

"Uh, Clay?" Jensen starts. "Maybe we should—"

"I didn't make any deal!" Roque twists, trying to buck Clay off, but Clay bears down, digging his knee into Roque's sternum.

"Again?" Pooch asks, and then Clay hears a boot strike the wall, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.

Roque tries to roll, and all Clay wants to do is smash his fist into Roque's face. No more excuses. "What the hell are you—"

"You've got a fucking tracker on you," Clay snarls, an inch away from Roque's face.

Roque stares at Clay like the information shocks him. He blinks and then his face twists up, and he tries to throw Clay again. "You've lost it—"

"I saw it. Venezuela, West Palm Beach, Miami, _Columbia_—"

"Got it!" Jensen says from somewhere behind Clay, but Clay is focused on Roque.

"—Akron. You gave us up."

Roque's nostrils flare, each rise and fall of his chest constrained by Clay's knee, and this time, Clay's not letting up. "I wouldn't be here if I gave you up."

"You can't talk your way out of this, Roque."

They stare at each other, silent, Clay's world narrowing down to a second betrayal. And this time, his team might not survive this.

"I didn't give you up."

"Burns as extensive as yours require skin grafts," Aisha says. "You were isolated, alone, and in pain."

Roque's eyes don't even flit in Aisha's direction. He keeps 'em right on Clay, voice dropping low like it's just the two of them. "I didn't betray you, Clay."

"Well this is an interesting turn of events."

Clay lifts his head, his attention taken by the more immediate threat. Max stands in the small doorway, dressed all in white, the corner of his mouth tipped into something bordering amusement.

Aisha takes a step forward, but Max wags a finger at her and steps to the side to reveal the security detail he's got behind him. He steps inside and off to the right, and they flood the room — eight men — rifles cocked and aimed.

"It's been unnecessarily difficult getting rid of you, Colonel," Max continues, pulling on the hem of his glove and flexing his fingers like he's trying to adjust the fit. "You're like a bad case of herpes." Max's lips flit into a smile like he's amused by his own joke and then his features smooth out. He darts a look at Roque and slides his hands down the front of his blazer. "Now. I believe you have some property that belongs to me."

Max nods, and one of the men advance, kicking Clay to the floor with a boot to the chest. There's a rifle in Clay's face before he has a chance to get up. Clay hears Max sigh.

"Wrong one." There's a beat of silence, and Clay drops his head, looking up and trying to assess where each member of his team is positioned. The room is small enough that they might be able to take out the few men in the room, get uncuffed, and head for the Seahawk that Cougar said was on the hangar. "I obviously meant the man I _wasn't_ addressing."

Clay hears Roque grunt and lifts his head, watching as another man plants a boot into Roque's stomach and aims a rifle at his face.

"So hard to find good help these days. The United States educational system is a travesty." Max steps closer, until Clay can see how white his shoes are. "Are you sure you don't want to join me, Colonel? I'm not without the ability to 'live and let live,' as they say, and you'd be helping America. We can save it from the downward spiral in which it's ensnared."

Clay turns his head and spits at Max's feet. Max retreats several feet, staring distastefully at the glob of it on the floor.

"Well, it was worth a try." Max turns his head, hands smoothing down his blazer and slacks. "Get rid of everyone else."

Clay ducks when he hears the first shot, blood spraying his face, his heart thundering in his chest as he rolls. He doesn't want to watch his men die, and if he has to, he's damn well going to fight for them 'til he's dead. He pushes up to his knees and stares at Cougar and Aisha, hands free, cutting down the security team that's in the room. Someone tackles Clay to the ground, facedown, and Clay's about to rear his head back for a headbutt.

"Whoa, just me, boss. I never thought the lockpicking kit would come in handy, but man, oh, man, I would just like to say that it seriously saved all of our asses. I'm totally getting my niece one for Christmas." Jensen unlocks the cuffs and pulls them off. "And we are now weapons free."

Clay shoots to his feet to catch sight of Roque sweeping one of the guards before he gets the shot off that was aimed at Clay. It doesn't clear the air between him and Roque, though. Not yet. Clay strips the man of all of his weapons — his rifle and a sidearm — while Aisha takes out the last man with a bullet to the head.

When the room is cleared, Jensen's the first one to speak. "So part of an elaborate plan to get Max or genuine act of betrayal? Again."

"The plan is get out alive," Roque answers and thrusts his wrists into Jensen's face. "Get these off."

Jensen's eyes dart to Clay.

"You're a liability," Clay says, staring at the tight line of Roque's shoulders.

Roque half-turns, his eyes finding Clay's like there'd be no one else behind him. "We get off this boat, you can worry about me then."

"Uh, did you miss the part where we've just confirmed they've been tracking you?" Jensen asks. "'Cause that means we have to worry about you now."

"Not much longer," Roque says and then nods toward the door. "Max is getting away."

Pooch snorts. "Not with Aisha on his ass. I bet Max is headed toward the Seahawk. Guess we're racing?"

Clay nods in answer to Pooch's question, his eyes still on Roque. "We move together; we go out together. Let's go. Cougar, you're on rear."

Cougar touches the brim of his hat — his version of an affirmative — and the teams heads out with Clay taking point. It's not hard to tell which direction Aisha went in. She left a trail of bodies to follow.

They're so damn close, but Clay can't help but dart a look at Roque, still waiting for that bullet or the slide of Roque's blade. Roque looks back, his mouth set into a grim line, and keeps pace until they reach the hangar deck.

"We have nothing to talk about, Max."

Clay skids to a halt, his brain not quite ready to process what he's watching. He hears the gun shot, but what he sees is Max's head snapping back, blood spraying out from his forehead. Max's white suit is dotted red when Aisha lowers the rifle. She pulls the trigger and keeps pulling until the clip is empty and Max's torso is nothin' but pulp.

"Jesus," Pooch mutters, stepping up to Clay's left.

"Dude, that's the understatement of the century," Jensen says.

It draws Aisha's attention to Clay and his team. She drops the rifle, reaches behind her and pulls another gun that she must have lifted from one of the sailors. She trains it on Clay, and Clay — crazy as it is — can't help but grin. He holds up his hands and drops his chin into the beginning of a nod.

"Fair enough."

"Whoa!" Jensen steps forward. "What the—No way! We just helped you! Hold on a minute!"

"I made a promise."

Aisha's words are for Clay, and he knows it. Right now, it's just between them. "I didn't forget."

"You killed my father."

Clay lowers his eyes. There's nothing else he can do. "I know."

"Remember the part where he was a very bad man?" Jensen continues.

Pooch grabs Jensen's arm and pulls him back. "Jensen, man, chill, she's not gonna—"

Aisha's eyes drop to the deck, the thin line of her mouth softening. When she looks at Clay again, he understands. It doesn't make this easy, but his team will get out of here okay. More importantly, they're done.

"Thank you," Aisha whispers.

Her finger flexes. Clay keeps his eyes open, darting a quick look behind Aisha to catch one last glimpse of the sky, all that ocean going out for miles. Seems like a fitting last scene. Aisha stumbles, planting a foot back to keep her balance, and Clay is getting shoved to the side.

"You're even," Roque says, coming up from behind Clay with his piece trained on Aisha, center mass. "We're all fucking even, and it's done."

Aisha gingerly touches her wound, a brief press of her fingertips as a grin splits her mouth wide. Then she trains her gun on Roque. "We still have to deal with you."

"What's there left to deal with? Max is dead."

"The tracker inside you isn't."

"Damn it," Clay says, taking a step forward, but Roque shoots him a look that stops him dead in his tracks.

It's Roque's 'do what we have to' looks. Then Roque sets his rifle on the deck, pulls a knife — between him and Aisha, they never seem to run out — and tests the sharp edge with the pad of his thumb.

"You know where it is?" Roque slides the blade to her. "Then cut it out. Problem solved." Roque slowly straightens, the corner of his mouth tightening in a grimace. "Clay's debt is paid."

Aisha crouches to pick up the knife, her piece still trained on Roque's chest and her eyes never leaving his.

"I can pay my own debts," Clay says, but neither one of them is listening to him.

Aisha walks toward Roque, and with each step, Clay's waiting for the pull of the trigger. The fact that she's not says something. Clay's not yet ready to parse it, but he can identify it at least. She tucks the blade under Roque's chin when she reaches him, the barrel of the gun digging into his sternum.

"Yours isn't."

Clay takes a step. "Aisha."

Her eyes are flat when they land on him. She drags the blade across Roque's neck, and Clay's chest tightens until he sees Roque touch the thin line of blood with the tips of his fingers. Clay stares as Roque rubs the smear of blood off with his thumb.

"You done?" Roque asks Aisha.

Aisha's mouth slants into a smile, the edges as sharp as the glint of the sun on the horizon. She brings the blade up and swipes the flat of it across her shirt. "For now."

Clay darts a look behind him at the rest of his team. Jensen stares wide-eyed at the scene like he's still trying to take it in, and Cougar's eyes are sharp for any hostiles. Pooch just shakes his head.

"I'm gonna get our ride. Is that good for everyone?"

"Good for me," Jensen says and then slides a look at Aisha. "You're not going to kill all of us on the boat, are you? 'Cause that would kind of make the happy ending I was going for suck. A lot."

Aisha doesn't answer straight away. Her eyes are on Roque, but Roque's eyes are on Clay.

"For all of us," Aisha says, smiling at Jensen. "Because I don't know how to fly that chopper."

Clay reaches out to Roque, swiping at the blood smeared on his neck. The cut isn't as deep as it could have been. It's not deep at all. "Still don't have your life back," Clay says.

"Still got one."

Clay nods, a slow movement of his head as he drops his hand to Roque's shoulder. "Yeah. Guess so." He gives it a short squeeze.

It's a quiet victory.


End file.
